I let random.org select a page and it decided 43 was a very pink option. 😛
On the pink side however, and there is always a pink side, you’ve just got to look hard enough for it, I have cute hair – I just checked my reflection in the lift mirror and it was looking very pink and fabulous, unlike Mean Maddie, I’m a very nice person to be around which I think will make me the best interngirl Missy magazine has ever seen ans I also have a whole box of cupcakes.
This is an ebook, so I let Random.org pick a percentage. It decided 48% was a good one.
I can’t stay here. Every moment in this place is a moment wasted. I just need to find the right time to slip away when no one is watching. At the moment, Frankie is the only one watching, but it’s enough to keep me rooted right where I am. I need to come up with a plan and maybe even try to consult my enchanted scroll again.
I let my boyfriend pick a page, he decided on page 326.
Mandel sounds like he’s in love with Joi too. I force myself to look at him. And for a moment, I don’t see a snake. Just a spoiled little psycho in a ten-thousand-dollar Italian suit who’s been allowed to believe that the rest of us are his playthings.
I first wanted to go for today’s date but neither 211 nor 112 held anything funny. So I let Random.org pick, it decided on page 7.
‘We could share with Toby and Fergus…’ I suggested. ‘Between four, it’d be, uh… a hundred and something.’
‘Only?’ wailed Chloe. ‘Anyway, we can’t share a caravan with Tobe and Ferg. They would, like, see us in our pants and, even worse, we would see them in their pants.’
Today not a page number, but instead a percentage, as this book is on my Kindle. I let Random.org select one and it decided 25% would be good.
I was about to say how creepy it had been that the doll had fallen but I was interrupted by Sadie herself.
“Wouldn’t it be fun,” the doll said in a high-pitched, warbling voice, “if you were a doll like me?”
I let Random.org pick a page, and it selected page 178.
The squawking of crows drew his attention back to the porch. A bare-foot girl in a nightgown stood on the warped steps. Her pale hair wanted brushing, and the peach satin bow she wore had slid halfway down, stuck in the rat’s nest of it. She looked to be about the same age as Memphis. Just like the farm, there was something a little off about her. A crop turning bad.